every calm, firm, deliberate gesture,these chief traits which constitute the power of Russia--simplicityand straightforwardness--are visible; but here, on every face, itseems to you that the danger, misery, and the sufferings of warhave, in addition to these principal characteristics, left traces ofconsciousness of personal worth, emotion, and exalted thought.
All at once a frightful roar, which shakes not your organs of hearingalone but your whole being, startles you so that you tremble all over.Then you hear the distant shriek of the shot as it pursues its course,and the dense smoke of the powder conceals from you the platform andthe black figures of the sailors who are moving about upon it. Youhear various remarks of the sailors in reference to this shot, and yousee their animation, and an exhibition of a feeling which you had notexpected to behold perhaps--a feeling of malice, of revenge againstthe enemy, which lies hidden in the soul of each man. "It struck theembrasure itself; it seems to have killed two men--see, they've carriedthem off!" you hear in joyful exclamation. "And now they are angry;they'll fire at us directly," says some one; and, in fact, shortlyafter you see a flash in front and smoke; the sentry, who is standingon the breastwork, shouts "Can-non!" And then the ball shrieks pastyou, strikes the earth, and scatters a shower of dirt and stones aboutit.
This ball enrages the commander of the battery; he orders a second anda third gun to be loaded, the enemy also begins to reply to us, andyou experience a sensation of interest, you hear and see interestingthings. Again the sentry shouts, "Can-non!" and you hear the samereport and blow, the same shower, or he shouts "Mortar!" and you hearthe monotonous, even rather pleasant whistle of the bomb, with which itis difficult to connect the thought of horror; you hear this whistleapproaching you, and increasing in swiftness, then you see the blacksphere, the impact on the ground, the resounding explosion of the bombwhich can be felt. With the whistle and shriek, splinters fly again,stones whiz through the air, and mud showers over you. At these soundsyou experience a strange feeling of enjoyment, and, at the same time,of terror. At the moment when you know that the projectile is flyingtowards you, it will infallibly occur to you that this shot will killyou; but the feeling of self-love upholds you, and no one perceivesthe knife which is cutting your heart. But when the shot has flownpast without touching you, you grow animated, and a certain cheerful,inexpressibly pleasant feeling overpowers you, but only for a moment,so that you discover a peculiar sort of charm in danger, in this gameof life and death, you want cannon-balls or bombs to strike nearer toyou.
But again the sentry has shouted in his loud, thick voice, "Mortar!"again there is a shriek, and a bomb bursts, but with this noise comesthe groan of a man. You approach the wounded man, at the same momentwith the bearers; he has a strange, inhuman aspect, covered as he iswith blood and mud. A part of the sailor's breast has been torn away.During the first moments, there is visible on his mud-stained faceonly fear and a certain simulated, premature expression of suffering,peculiar to men in that condition; but, at the same time, as thestretcher is brought to him and he is laid upon it on his sound side,you observe that this expression is replaced by an expression of asort of exaltation and lofty, inexpressible thought. His eyes shinemore brilliantly, his teeth are clenched, his head is held higher withdifficulty, and, as they lift him up, he stops the bearers and saysto his comrades, with difficulty and in a trembling voice: "Farewell,brothers!" He tries to say something more, and it is plain that hewants to say something touching, but he repeats once more: "Farewell,brothers!"
At that moment, one of his fellow-sailors steps up to him, puts the capon the head which the wounded man holds towards him, and, waving hishand indifferently, returns calmly to his gun. "That's the way withseven or eight men every day," says the naval officer to you, in replyto the expression of horror which has appeared upon your countenance,as he yawns and rolls a cigarette of yellow paper.
* * * * *
Thus you have seen the defenders of Sevastopol, on the very scene ofthe defence, and you go back paying no attention, for some reasonor other, to the cannon-balls and bullets, which continue to shriekthe whole way until you reach the ruined theatre,--you proceed withcomposure, and with your soul in a state of exaltation.
The principal and cheering conviction which you have brought away isthe conviction of the impossibility of the Russian people waveringanywhere whatever--and this impossibility you have discerned not in themultitude of traverses, breastworks, artfully interlaced trenches,mines, and ordnance, piled one upon the other, of which you havecomprehended nothing; but you have discerned it in the eyes, thespeech, the manners, in what is called the spirit of the defendersof Sevastopol. What they are doing they do so simply, with so littleeffort and exertion, that you are convinced that they can do a hundredtimes more--that they can do anything. You understand that the feelingwhich makes them work is not a feeling of pettiness, ambition,forgetfulness, which you have yourself experienced, but a differentsentiment, one more powerful, and one which has made of them men wholive with their ordinary composure under the fire of cannon, amidhundreds of chances of death, instead of the one to which all men aresubject who live under these conditions amid incessant labor, poverty,and dirt. Men will not accept these frightful conditions for the sakeof a cross or a title, nor because of threats; there must be anotherlofty incentive as a cause, and this cause is the feeling which rarelyappears, of which a Russian is ashamed, that which lies at the bottomof each man's soul--love for his country.
Only now have the tales of the early days of the siege of Sevastopol,when there were no fortifications there, no army, no physicalpossibility of holding it, and when at the same time there was notthe slightest doubt that it would not surrender to the enemy,--of thedays when that hero worthy of ancient Greece, Korniloff, said, as hereviewed the army: "We will die, children, but we will not surrenderSevastopol;" and our Russians, who are not fitted to be phrase-makers,replied: "We will die! hurrah!"--only now have tales of that time ceasedto be for you the most beautiful historical legends, and have becomereal facts and worthy of belief. You comprehend clearly, you figureto yourself, those men whom you have just seen, as the very heroes ofthose grievous times, who have not fallen, but have been raised by thespirit, and have joyfully prepared for death, not for the sake of thecity, but of the country. This epos of Sevastopol, whose hero was theRussian people, will leave mighty traces in Russia for a long time tocome.
Night is already falling. The sun has emerged from the gray clouds,which cover the sky just before its setting, and has suddenlyilluminated with a crimson glow the purple vapors, the greenish seacovered with ships and boats rocking on the regular swell, and thewhite buildings of the city, and the people who are moving through itsstreets. Sounds of some old waltz played by the regimental band on theboulevard, and the sounds of firing from the bastions, which echo themstrangely, are borne across the water.